


Bar for the Course

by Rookmoon



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Affectionate Insults, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Bars, First Meetings, Gen, Helping A Buddy Out, Insults, NOT love at first sight, Other, Protective Sans (Undertale), Swearing, Underfell Sans (Undertale), and jokes, gender neutral reader, genderless reader, reader just wanted food, underground wasn't fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:54:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23048884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rookmoon/pseuds/Rookmoon
Summary: You came here for your drunk friends that disappear after a while, you stay for the fries, and a skeleton helps you get out of a Situation.
Relationships: Grillby & Sans (Undertale), Sans (Undertale)/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 87





	Bar for the Course

The bar is dim, thrumming with music as bodies withe in some sort of dance. You're off to the side, sipping some water and munching on some frankly glorious fries while you wait for this guy to stop talking to you so you can get back to entertaining yourself by joking with the bartender.

Unfortunately, the thumping music isn't enough to drown out this guy's advances.

You regret going bar hopping right now. You regret it _so hard_. Harder than this guy's dick is, if his slobbery jabbering is anything to go by. He leans forward, flinging spittle onto the plate of fries you had been using as an excuse to not talk to him or punch him directly in the teeth, because manners and whatnot. That and you’re not wanting to give the many staring eyes a reason to kick you out. A bar fight would definitely be a reason to get thrown out of this surprisingly homey monster bar your friends had managed to find. The only monster bar that was on the map.

That doesn’t stop your lip from curling at the loss of your truly glorious food.

This guy must see the disgust on your face when you push the plate away just a little and has the nerve to grin like Christmas is coming early.

Too bad you won't be doing him any favors tonight. The only appointment he would keep is with his own hand as far as you’re concerned.

You stand and start going, content to leave this guy with his meager options and increasingly lewd imagination for company, but the sweaty hand he had been waving around like a damned muppet for the last ten minutes grabs your arm to stop you.

All you wanted was to enjoy your food, and be left alone while the people that dragged you out of your safe haven were too busy gyrating to whatever shitty song was playing over the sound system.

You didn’t even try to look good for this. You look like a pissy mess right now. You have no idea why this guy wants to ‘talk’ to you so badly.

At least, you would if you hadn’t caught his eyes wandering a handful of times while you had endured his obviously embellished, uh, achievements in his private life that you wouldn’t want to hear from anyone ever again, especially this guy who thinks taco stains must be sexy.

All in all, you didn't ask for this, and you don't want to put up with it anymore.

You tug your arm out of his drunken grasp, and he almost falls over trying to latch on again.

A quick scan of the bar tells you the exact opposite of what you want to see. No one looking like they’d give you a hand with this. Then again, what else would you expect, coming to a seedy bar like this on a weekend. All you see is a bunch of people lining the dance floor who want the same thing you do. To be left alone.

A second look around the room, and ignoring the insistently trying-too-hard whispering of this guy telling you he ‘knows someplace quiet’, tells you that either your drunken friends are all in the bathroom, or they forgot you were here and left without you. They must have had way too much to drink if that’s the case.

Great.

Guess it’s time to either cause a scene, or recruit a bystander for help.

This guy isn’t going to leave you alone though. You pull your hand away from his desperate greasy fingers and give him a glare strong enough to curdle milk, but the sleeze-bag shit-of-the-week doesn’t notice the daggers you’re glaring at him. He does give you a sloppy wink and what you think might be a smirk.

Luckily, someone else does notice your little predicament. Besides, what better way to get rid of a sleeze bag then with another sleeze bag?

There are probably a lot of ways to do that, but you're drawing a blank right now, so you’ll take what you can get.

The guy you think you made eye contact with has his hood up, and the fluff on it is enough to cover most of his face, so you can’t tell if you did catch his attention or if you're just really hoping you did.

All you can get is that this guy is seriously pale. Like, needs a hospital pale. If this turns out right, you’ll take him to return the favor. That’s an even trade, right? Save one person from a skeezy ass and get medical attention in return, right?

Turns out what-you-can-get knows how to take a hint. You're too busy trying to get the creep away from you to see him properly after that first glance. He still stands up, bringing his drink with him as he saunters over, as calm as anything.

You turn back towards the guy that’s still tugging insistently at your arm. He looks alarmed, but you don’t give a shit about the reason why. You square your shoulders again, and pull your arm out of his hands.

Someone stops next to you. “so, what brings you ‘round here, human?” 

The newcomer’s arm drapes over your shoulder, and you hope that you didn’t just hop out of the frying pan and directly into the fire. The stranger’s voice is all but an intimidating growl, husky and rough in a way that sends a shock of fear down your spine.

The smell of ozone and smoke burns the air around you.

This could only be magic, which means a monster had come to save your sorry ass. Thank god the edgy bastard is willing to do you a solid. You'll have to find some way to thank him. Maybe cover a few drinks for him or something.

The dumbass weasel takes a wobbly step back and bristles.

“What’r’you talkin’ about, you walking boney ass freak’f nature?!” Lord Douche-sniffer asks, leering at the monster beside you like he’s got something to prove.

With how he’s been acting, it wouldn’t surprise you if he did.

“I’m talkin’ bout the bar.” The monster’s head comes into your field of vision, and you see what this guy meant with the drunken insults. Your night in a fluffy jacket has a harsh look on his face, and a sharp golden tooth gleams in the dim light of the bar. Sharp teeth pry apart only for something glowing red to worm it’s way out and run over a few of the top teeth. The monster’s glare sharpens as his mouth closes and the red lights in his eyes burn. It only adds to the overall effect of the glower he levels at the guy.

The one to come and save you from this walking pile of pond scum is a surly skeleton monster, one that looks like he's in the mood for a fight. In a monster bar. Where humans in general aren’t all that welcome with only a few exceptions. You're lucky you're here right now, and you know this guy is walking on thin ice.

“Grillbz don’t usually let creeps like you stick around this long.” Skele-man leers, looking the guy up and down. “Heh, no wonder. Looks like he’s gettin’ a laugh out’a you're sorry ass, chuckle-head."

The walking disaster zone shifts his drunken stance, realizing just how unlucky he is tonight.

You scoff, trying to inch closer to the counter, and the crackling bartender that you had been swapping idle but honestly hilarious commentary with before this guy showed up.

The skeleton looks up at you, just a little, out of the corner of his eye socket. Sleeze number one tosses a look backwards as he leaves the bar with a sulky pout on his face.

Wonderful. He knows you’re scared as all hell right now. Ain’t that the cherry on top of this hot mess of a night you’ve had.

Oh well. At least that guy finally left. Now all you gotta do is thank the skeleton monster and hopefully be on your way in one piece.

The skeleton is wiggling a brow bone at you. Well, shit.

“Howzabout you n’ me go someplace else, eh sweet pea?”

“Nah, I’d rather stick around. Fire off some more jokes at the bartender.”

His posture relaxes as he chuckles. “My favorite pastime. Name’s Sans.” He offers a hand to shake.

You give him your name and shake the hand he offers to you. It feels like there’s really nothing but bone here. Looks like it too.

You take your seat at the bar and flag down the bartender for another order of fries, and Sans takes over the seat next to you.

“So, uh, thanks for helping me with that walking slime back there.”

“Actual slimes are more of a pain to deal with. Those fuckers really stick with it, lemme tell ya.” He laughs, “Ain’t a problem though. Just means I might cash in a favor if I need it.”

Well fuck, looks like you might have been right about making a mistake here.

“But we can get to that later. Now, I gotta know what you think a’ that guy standing by the jukebox. Been standin’ there ten minutes and hasn’t picked nothin’.”

“The one that looks like some sort of sparkle demon rolled him in glass shards or the one that looks like he’s already puked a few times?”

“Heheh, puke face.” He flicks a hand at the bartender. The flaming man slides a bottle of mustard into Sans’ hand. The skeleton nods, tips the bottle towards the bartender, and takes a long pull from it while you watch in horrified silence.

“What, never seen a guy drink mustard before?”

“Short answer, yes. And it was just as gross when it happened then.”

“Pfft. Looks like you know someone with, heheh, killer taste. That mustard been something to see.” Sans laughs, and you chuckle along with him.

You beg to differ. The only way her taste would be killer is literally. “Don’t tell her that. It’ll go directly to her hair.”

“What, skip her head on the way up?”

“Her hair is so big you could hide an actual birds nest in it and no one would know, including her. She told me once it was on purpose. She uses like three cans of hairspray to do that fucking beehive she likes so much. I'm pretty sure the only reason is because she looks like a fuckin fifties housewife even though she's anything but."

That gets him laughing, and you’re happy to shoot the shit with this funny skeleton while the bartender brings you another plate of fries with a drink you didn’t ask for.

“Sorry, I think you might have gotten mixed up. I didn’t order a drink.”

The bartender just smiles, as much as fire can. “It’s for entertaining this pain in the ass for a while.”

Sans sputters through another drink. “Aw, com’on, Grillbz, you know you love me.”

“I love it when you pay your fucking tab.”

“Yer just sayin’ that.” Sans tips the mustard bottle up and squirts more than you’d expect to come out of a bottle at once directly past his sharp teeth and into his mouth.

“Happy to help.” You pick up the drink and swirl it around in its glass. “Thanks. What’s this, anyhow? Doesn’t smell like anything I’ve ever had.”

“Monster liquer. Moonstone Mead. Made only in Waterfall, with a touch of sea tea and Echo Flower extract.” Grillby lists, then walks away to bring another drink to the bunny who’s so drunk she’s drooling on the table in front of her. You’re mostly sure she was like that when you came in.

Some sort of ambient music you wouldn’t expect in a bar like this plays from the jukebox.

“Huh. Looks like Catty’s feelin’ a little nostalgic today.”

“How can you tell?”

“That’s the song that use’ta play when she was with her friend. Somethin’ happened a while back, like it always does.” He tips the mustard at you with a raised brow bone. “Ya know how it is.”

You do know how it is for monsters. You’d seen the documentaries that had popped up after they had escaped their hellish prison. You’d heard of their King, who rules with an iron fist, and the royal guard that takes the term ‘take no prisoners’ very literally. Not to mention the news coverage. It was everywhere.

You didn’t think that you’d find a monster willing to talk about it like this. Usually monsters didn’t want to say shit to a human. Something about leaving the past buried, which you can understand.

“Ah well, they were a couple’a loons anyhow. The gator was always too much of a brat for me ta deal with. Too many teeth.” His own golden tooth flashes with mirth. “Sides, Bratty was too snappy to hang around for long, and not in a good way. Gater was just askin’ fer trouble.”

The song changes to something jarringly upbeat, and the few humans who had the nerve to be there got up to dance the way humans do. A couple of monsters got up with them. You stayed in your seat with Sans and your half gone fries.

A quiet look crosses Sans’ face. You think you’ve seen that look before, on someone you used to know a long time ago.

“Did you know her?”

“Nah. Jus’ hate it. Wish things could’a been different, even if there was no choice but to buckle down. My bro’s the same way. Real stuck up guy, but he’s pretty cool if you get ta know ‘im.”

“You’ve got a brother?”

“You got a lotta questions.”

You turn back to your fries with a shrug. “Just talking is all.” You try the drink.

You don’t know what you expected Moonstone Mead to taste like, but the tingling in your mouth leaves an aftertaste of unexpected flavors. Somehow, the drink is surprisingly warm-and-cold all at once. It reminds you of something a little bit sad that you can't quite put your finger on. Something inside your relaxes a little. Your eyes widen in surprise, and Sans bursts out laughing. The something tenses up again, feeling very much back to normal, even if it does feel a little funny.

“That’s gotta be the best face I’ve seen all day.” He slaps the counter, and gets a sharp look from Grillby for his trouble. “I knew ya had some funny faces, but I didn’t think ya had somethin’ like that. Ya look like Paps did when he made the Guard.”

You ignore the skeleton laughing his way into a puddle on the floor in exchange for shoving another savory fry into your mouth. When you’ve finished, you pay for your stuff, and Sans’ mustard before going on your way.

Sans looks like he wants to say something, but he’s still laughing hard enough to draw attention and not be able to breathe very well.

You shove your hands into your pockets as you open the door to leave. You’ve walked half way home when you realize that there’s something extra in your pocket. When you pull it out you find a small piece of paper that you hadn’t seen before.

It’s got some funky handwriting that reminds you of a font you used to use to piss off your teachers in school. In sloppy sans serif, it said ‘call for a good time.’ and what must be his phone number underneath.

‘What a sleeze.’ You think to yourself, smiling at the proof of a tenuous friendship with the skeleton who had saved your night.

You send him a text later in the evening, and dub him ‘Boned’ in your contacts. Something tells you it’s the start of something interesting when he sends back a shitty pun about murder that starts up another round of jokes. This is going to be an interesting friendship indeed.


End file.
